Colours of Grief
by NovemberRiddle
Summary: George is dealing with the pain of losing Fred. Flashfic/Drabble


**BLACK of the gaping hole**

The first days are hazy even now; he must've been in shock or denial. The painful awareness that his twin, his lifelong companion and best friend is dead hadn't sunk in yet. Not then.

George isn't sure it has sunk in now. He still can't fully comprehend the reality of no longer having Fred by his side. He still wakes up every morning expecting to find his twin there, smiling from the other bed.

He doesn't remember anything up to the funeral or the funeral itself - isn't even sure how he found this cold, meaningless piece of stone before him now.

Had it rained?

It should have rained.

Or would the sun be more appropriate? The last nod to the warm, irreplaceable life that was now gone?

It bothers him immensely that he can't remember. He should ask someone what the weather was like…

Harry. Harry won't judge or question him. He will ask Harry, George promises himself.

He stands before a stone with his brother's name engraved on it wondering if he should say something. He wishes desperately that a good joke came to him, one that will doubtlessly make Fred laugh. Yet, only the torturous tears gather in his eyes as the emptiness of the past days fills his mind.

 **GRAY of the missing shadow**

Every mirror is a knife to the gut.

It took a month for him to be so overwhelmed, angry, depressed and utterly powerless in his misery to shout "REDUCTO" at their (his) mirror. He avoided so much as glancing at the broken pieces, terrified of catching sight of Fred's face in the reflective surfaces that rained to the ground.

An icy wind blows over the graveyard and George pulls his jacket closer. Summer was on its last leg and the north wind is bringing storm clouds from the sea. He can smell the rain in the air. Bright blue strains of his hair fall into his eyes. He colored it recently. Even with no reflective surfaces left in their (his) home, he kept caching Fread ghost in the bright shop windows of Diagon Ally. It wasn't quite as difficult to ignore now, as long as he didn't stare directly at the reflection of his (their) face.

He should've brought something other than flowers with him. It feels like he is disappointing them both with such a banal, cliché offering. He'll bring the fireworks next time. Perhaps he can make Fred smile, even if he can't quite manage the movement of the lips himself.

"I am going to light up this gloomy place like a Christmas tree," he whispers, trying and failing to muster any enthusiasm or joy.

Only silence greats him, eerily like the silence he hears every night before he falls asleep when in the darkness he stares at the ceiling straining to hear another breath taken at the other side of the room where a now empty bed remains.

 **SILVER of hope**

A year has passed and George would still leave his sentences unfinished sometimes. Somehow, he kept expecting another voice, identical to his in tone, to finish them for him. A half-forgotten habit of a life he no longer had – could never again have.

Angelina and Lee had taken to completing his thoughts in most ridiculous ways they could think of. They had finally cracked through his blankness a month ago. He was hysterical at first. Laughing and crying and laughing again. But the fog had finally cleared from his mind. He had been so busy since then that he couldn't find the time to visit the grave.

He can hear Fred make a joke about headless chickens running around with no aim. George has a goal in mind though.

"I am reopening the shop soon," he declares out loud, a soft, smile at the edge of his lips. It's weak, frail, but present.

For the first time, he doesn't expect an answer. The pain is there, but dull, without its sharp edge. He can breathe through it. The semblance of a smile remains.

 **WHITE of new beginnings**

The stone is warm under his touch. Small wonder. The heath of the sun is enough to fry the dead and the living.

"It's tomorrow," George says with a smile, "Can't believe I'm getting married, eh? That makes two of us. Always figured the two of us will be the old married couple."

An old lady four graves to his left is giving him a stern look. He knows he is being too loud and too cheerful for this dreary place that even on a bright day has a blanket of dread and disappear covering it, but he doesn't give a damn.

Tomorrow, Angelina and he will become a husband and wife.  
Tomorrow, he will smile, laugh, and enjoy the celebration.  
Tomorrow, he will start living life to the fullest again.

Now, George allows himself one last moment of grief for all the moments in his life Fred won't be there to see, all the milestones only he will experience. He had been in pain for too long, had drowned in sadness and he had picked himself up. Squeezing the stone he promises that he will live the best life he can.

For Fred.


End file.
